Might not the editor man view
with pride the early, the spiritual, the literal fruit that had
blessed his labours.
Policeman O'Brine folded the paper and poked it playfully under the
arm of a small boy that was passing. That boy was named Johnny, and he
took the paper home with him. His sister was named Gladys, and she
had written to the beauty editor of the paper asking for the
practicable touchstone of beauty. That was weeks ago, and she had
ceased to look for an answer. Gladys was a pale girl, with dull eyes
and a discontented expression. She was dressing to go up to the
avenue to get some braid. Beneath her skirt she pinned two leaves of
the paper Johnny had brought. When she walked the rustling sound was
an exact imitation of the real thing.
On the street she met the Brown girl from the flat below and stopped
to talk. The Brown girl turned green. Only silk at $5 a yard could
make the sound that she heard when Gladys moved. The Brown girl,
consumed by jealousy, said something spiteful and went her way, with
pinched lips.
Gladys proceeded toward the avenue. Her eyes now sparkled like
jagerfonteins. A rosy bloom visited her cheeks; a triumphant, subtle,
vivifying, smile transfigured her face. She was beautiful. Could the
beauty editor have seen her then! There was something in her answer
in the paper, I believe, about cultivating kind feelings toward others
in order to make plain features attractive.
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